Oh list' to the tale of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the string of his old withered
hands
But remember those fingers they once could move
sharper
To raise up the strains of his dear native land.

It was long before the shamrock, dear isle's
lovely emblem
Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion
paw
And all the pretty colleens around me would
gather
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of
Armagh.

How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood
Though four score and three years have fled by
them
It's king's sweet reflection that every young
joy
For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old
men.

At a fair or a wake I would twist my shillelah
And trip through a dance with my brogues tied
with straw
There all the pretty maidens around me would
gather
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of
Armagh.

In truth I have wandered this wide world over
Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me
And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall
cover
Be cut from the land that is trod by the free.

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth
embrace
And lull me to sleep with old Erin go bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh
place me
Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.